_To William James._
The following letter was written immediately before the outbreak of
war between Spain and the United States.
_Dictated._
34 De Vere Gardens, W.
20 April, 1898.
My dear William,
There are all sorts of _intimes_ and confidential things I want to say
to you in acknowledgment of your so deeply interesting letter--of April
10th--received yesterday; but I must break the back of my response at
least with this mechanical energy; not having much of any other--by
which I mean simply too many odd moments--at my disposal just now. I do
answer you, alas, almost to the foul music of the cannon. It is this
morning precisely that one feels the fat to be at last fairly in the
fire. I confess that the blaze about to come leaves me woefully cold,
thrilling with no glorious thrill or holy blood-thirst whatever. I see
nothing but the madness, the passion, the hideous clumsiness of rage, of
mechanical reverberation; and I echo with all my heart your denouncement
of the foul criminality of the screeching newspapers. They have long
since become, for me, the danger that overtops all others. That became
clear to one, even here, two years ago, in the Venezuela time; when one
felt that with a week of simple, enforced silence everything could be
saved. If things _were_ then saved without it, it is simply that they
hadn't at that time got so bad as they are now in the U.S. My sympathy
with you all is intense--the whole horror must so mix itself with all
your consciousness. I am near enough to hate it, without being, as you
are, near enough in some degree, perhaps, to understand. I am leading at
present so quiet a life that I don't measure much the sentiment, the
general attitude around me. Much of it can't possibly help being
Spanish--and from the "European" standpoint in general Spain _must_
appear savagely assaulted. She is so quiet--publicly and politically--so
decent and picturesque and harmless a member of the European family that
I am bound to say it argues an extraordinary illumination and a very
predetermined radicalism not to admire her pluck and pride. But
publicly, of course, England will do nothing whatever that is not more
or less--negatively--for our benefit. I scarcely know what the
newspapers say--beyond the Times, which I look at all for Smalley's
cables: so systematic is my moral and intellectual need of ignoring
them. One must save one's life if one can. The next weeks will, however,
in this particular, probably not a little break me down. I must at least
read the Bombardment of Boston. May you but scantly suffer from it!...
I rejoice with intense rejoicing in everything you tell me of your own
situation, plans, arrangements, honours, prospects--into all of which I
enter with an intimacy of participation. Your election to the _Institut_
has, for me, a surpassing charm--I simply revel and, as it were, wallow
in it. Je m'y vautre. But oh, if it could only have come soon enough for
poor Alice to have known it--such a happy little nip as it would have
given her; or for the dear old susceptible Dad! But things come as they
can--and I am, in general, lost in the daily miracle of their coming at
all: I mean so many of them--few as that many may be: and I speak above
all for myself. I am lost, moreover, just now, in the wonder of what
effect on American affairs, of every kind, the shock of battle will
have. Luckily it's of my nature--though not of my pocket--always to be
prepared for the worst and to expect the least. Like you, with all my
heart, I have "finance on the brain." At least I try to have it--with a
woeful lack of natural talent for the same. It is none too soon. But one
arrives at dates, periods, corners of one's life: great changes, deep
operations are begotten. This has more portee than I can fully go into.
I shall certainly do my best to let my flat when I am ready to leave
town; the difficulty, this year, however, will be that the time for
"season" letting begins now, and that I can't depart for at least
another month. Things are not ready at Rye, and won't be till then, with
the limited local energy at work that I have very wisely contented
myself with turning on there. It has been the right and much the best
way in the long run, and for one's good little relations there; only the
run has been a little longer. The remnant of the season here may be
difficult to dispose of--to a sub-lessee; and my books--only a part of
which I can house at Rye--are a complication. However, I shall do what I
can this year; and for subsequent absences, so long as my present lease
of De Vere Gardens runs, I shall have the matter on a smooth, organised,
working basis. I mean to arrange myself always to let--being, as such
places go, distinctly lettable. And for my declining years I have
already put my name down for one of the invaluable south-looking,
Carlton-Gardens-sweeping bedrooms at the Reform Club, which are let by
the year and are of admirable and convenient (with all the other
resources of the place at one's elbow) _general_ habitability. The only
thing is they are so in demand that one has sometimes a long time to
await one's turn. On the other hand there are accidents--"occasions."
... I embrace you all--Alice longer than the rest--and am--with much
actuality of emotion, ever your